


Acedia

by NEMKA



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Dark, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Morality, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NEMKA/pseuds/NEMKA
Summary: Glass breaks under an unsteady wand.“Even after all this, you remain a faithful friend.”“Like an old foolish dog, is that what you mean?”
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Acedia

**Author's Note:**

> It was long and difficult, because I wanted to show way too much; but I still don’t know if I managed. It was written to the songs "House of Cards" and "Humanity" by Scorpions.
> 
> Remus is sick from the full moon, Sirius has insomnia, and Hermione has anxiety. 
> 
> P.S. I do not consider Sirius to be bad (rather psychologically crippled - in books something similar to bipolar and PTSD is shown). But, as for me, the "canon" Sirimione is an unhealthy relationship. (She's sixteen? Seventeen? And he, by the way, is twenty years older.)

**Acedia is a state of listlessness or torpor, of not caring or not being concerned with one's position or condition in the world. It can lead to a state of being unable to perform one's duties in life.**

* * *

Sirius thinks that his mother has no blood, but the darkest ink flowing through her veins and her skin is like old, transparent and fragile parchment, like scripts from the family library which fall apart in his hands. For the disrespectful attitude to the books, he is locked in his room and allowed to read only under the close supervision of his father.

“Let me see a day when he’s sober,” thinks Sirius and snorts at the portrait of Phineas.

He, at least, does not screech like a madman.

After all, everything in life is simple: roses are red, violets are blue, and Walburga Black despises her eldest son. Father can still be tolerated. He hardly leaves his office, and even under those layers of hate towards everyone except Regulus, some fatherly feelings may still smolder.

Black Sr. even takes Sirius’s side when Walburga and Druella enthusiastically discuss his marriage with Andromeda.

“Oh Merlin, did dad really have the courage to refuse her?”

* * *

  
Sirius is nine when encouraged by his mother, he curses Kreacher with the second unforgivable. The elf silently suffers the torture, soundlessly shaking on a dusty carpet.

“You are a Black,” Walburga says firmly, crosses her arms and watches the house-elf cough twice before apparating back to the closet. “Never forget your noble lineage.”

In the corners lurk the shadows of something terrible and unknown, and with them, the pride of a snake creeps into his heart.

“I am the heir to the most ancient and noble House of Black! You must obey me!” Sirius says to the muggle boy, for which he instantly gets hit in the face with a snowball.

* * *

  
The muggle boy crosses the street twice a day. Winter is quietly melting, but the weather still remains disgustingly wet.

“You're funny,” he hands Black a cheese sandwich and sits down next to him on a bench. “Let's be friends?”

Sirius twirls this strange something in an equally strange silver wrapper in his hands and then throws it right into the puddle.

“I won’t eat this poison, and I don't need friends!”

* * *

  
“Werewolves, in their human form, are no different from us. The condition begins to manifest only a week before the full moon in the form of improved reflexes and sensory feelings. Rosier, what a pity you weren’t taught to fold planes properly. In detention, on Friday _I will_ show you.”

The new DADA teacher is weird, and Sirius cannot understand whether this oddity is good or bad.

“Does she have eyes on the back of her head, or what?” James elbows him in the side.

“No, You-Know-who’s hiding there,” both quietly laugh, shielding themselves with books, and this time Lupine kicks them under the desk.

“Most of the prejudices associated with lycanthropy come from people like Fenrir Greyback, who use their condition to justify their immoral behavior, calling it "a connection with the beast inside." Potter, Black, ten points for chatter, both of you.

* * *

  
“I hope he fucking _rots_ ,” James whispers, looking at Snape scrambling to the Shrieking Shack. “Nosy fucker.”

Sirius squeezes a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand and laughs so hard, an old man in the portrait wakes up and leaves. To go to sleep somewhere else or to complain is unclear.

In the sky, the full moon floats like a giant yellow pancake.

* * *

  
“If you don’t tell me who started it all, all of you will have detention.”

Snape scowls, Malfoy kicks a piece of the broken chair, and Peter squeaks, trying to hide behind Remus.

“It was James, professor,” Pettigrew mutters softly, glancing fearfully at Potter. He goes to Hogsmeade with Mary MacDonald.

“You, _rat_ ,” hisses Sirius, scowling toward the plump boy.

“I'm waiting for you on Saturday. _All_ of you.”

* * *

  
“It’s like a herd of hippogriffs ran through storages, honestly. Sirius, spill the beans, are you really going to poison old Walburga?”

Alphard is, of course, joking. There is no way to kill the hag, no matter how hard you try. The younger, not yet sober from Uncle’s rum, Black squeezes the fresh issue of the Prophet in one hand; the corners begin to smolder from an emotional outburst. In another, Alphard swears quietly, an expensive Italian cigar.

Black senior, looking at all of this, rips a newspaper out of the stiff fingers. On the main page - Mrs. Zabini with her new husband. Fourth? Fifth? And on the table - letters, letters, letters, with traces of lipstick, then tears, and poems, poems, endless poems.

“Sirius,” Alphard heartily laughs and opens the windows wide. “You are still so naive, merlin’s pants.”

* * *

  
“And if you stop for a minute, you will understand: you breathe, inhale, exhale, inhale, and so on several dozen times a minute. Life, no matter how unrealistic it may seem, consists of things you are so used to you do not even notice them."

Marlene's voice breaks and she sits back. At the end of the table, Molly is weeping - today Gideon and Fabian Prewetts have not returned from their assignment. Mad-Eye Moody says something, but Sirius cannot hear what. Apparently, this works poorly - after a second, Weasley squeezes him in a suffocating embrace, and the lamentations become even louder.

Black, seeing the stunned face of the auror, almost laughs.

* * *

  
“I don't reckon my dad would've wanted them to become killers - just for you.” the boy says boldly, and someone else's wand in Sirius’s hands trembles.

“I hope he fucking rots,” Says a sixteen-year-old James in his head, and Black decisively takes a step forward. He does not see how Remus pulls Harry away and how the Granger girl covers her eyes. A green flash illuminates the room.

* * *

  
“Are you really going to live with him?” Hermione scratches her bandaged hand and frowns. “You don't know him at all!”

“He was my father’s best friend. I believe him, yeah?”

“Harry, no!”

“Harry, yes!” mimics Potter and throws his legs on the table. Madame Pins coughs twice and adjusts her glasses menacingly.

* * *

  
When Professor Lupin helps Hermione get off the shaky steps of the Knight Bus, twilight is already beginning to thicken over the smoky London. She stumbles uncharacteristically and almost falls, grabbing at the last moment for a freshly painted lamp post.

The paint on her hands is _black_.

The whole world is plunged into godforsaken _blackness._

“You have to be careful, Hermione. You could break something.” The remark is sharper and harsher than intended. Granger looks at her former teacher and she thinks she sees canines flashing bright in the dim light.

“Excuse me, professor.”

Suddenly, a kind smile moves his lips and he puts a hand on her shoulder. The same way he was with Neville on their first lesson, and later Hermione would laugh at this association. A fat beetle flies past her ear, buzzing like a small plane, and lands on a fence. Remus, it turns out, has been saying something all this time.

“… But I don’t think you will see him much,” Lupin puts a rough piece of paper into her hand. “He spends all his time with Buckbeak. Now, read the address.” 

* * *

  
Nymphadora is bright, lively, like a stained glass window shining in the sun.

On Tuesday, she washes dishes after dinner and whistles a familiar tune. Soap foam scatters in all directions, and a swearing Kreacher wipes the puddles. Sirius sneaks up inaudibly like a dementor and slides his cold - forever cold - hands under her T-shirt.

Tonks, as if not herself, turns faster than a pixie and hits Black in the ribs so hard he takes three steps back. Her eyes - two cold black holes.

_Stained-glass windows - fragments of broken glass._

“It's _not funny_ , Sirius.” Molly purses his lips and hands Hestia a greasy towel. Harry only now realizes that this is not white noise in his ears – his godfather, leaning on an ancient cabinet, laughs in a hoarse, barking laugh. “Boys, go wipe the dust in the hallway.”

Weasley mumbles something in response, but Potter pulls him out of the kitchen almost forcefully.

“And do not stomp your feet!”

“I'm _not_ stomping!”

“But you shuffle,” Ginny observes, leaning over the banister, and sticks out her tongue. Behind her, Fred and George are moving empty boxes. “You shuffle like an old lady. _Shurkh-shurkh_ ”

“I don’t shuffle! And don’t stomp! And wipe your stupid dust yourself!” Ron yells and wakes up the portrait of Mrs. Black. 

* * *

  
On the second night of sleepless tossing and turning from Ron's snoring, Harry crawls out from under the covers and ventures into the cold corridor. He stops on the stairs - it smells of whiskey from the kitchen.

Molly doesn't stop complaining about the master of the house neither to McGonagall, nor to Andromeda, nor Remus. Sometimes, when Sirius wedges in, dishes break and glasses fly into walls, much to Black's quiet joy.

Harry doesn't blame his godfather and even understands. When he asks “What is happening, Sirius?”, Sirius quite sincerely and slightly angrily answers: _“Merlin knows what shit”._

Gray eyes look unblinkingly through walls and time. He, it seems, hasn’t quite returned from _there_. Outside the window, the last red leaves in the wind fly by like drunken butterflies, and the howl itself is like that of a dog. Why dogs - Harry can’t understand, usually all this resembles the banshee's screams.

Noticing a sharp movement out of the corner of his eye, he backs toward the wall. Black comes close, looks directly into his eyes and squeezes his shoulders so hard it almost hurts. He smells of musty, old clothes, of firewhisky and stale sweat, like he hasn't bathed recently. But Harry isn’t scared, because it’s Sirius - the closest person to him in the whole world.

“Do you know what they do to boys like you in Azkaban?” he whispers, and Harry shivers from the cold, or from the closeness, or from something else. And then he laughs, that dark, horrible, humiliating sound rings in his ears, and the eyes that Harry used to think were so kind, warm and understanding, are dark and empty.

 _Nothing_. In Azkaban, there are only solitary cells.

Cold ocean waves quietly crash, hitting smooth rocks, and chains rattle.

* * *

“Mr. Black! I didn’t mean to bother you!” a book from Hermione’s hands falls onto the library floor with a thud, raising translucent clouds of dust into the air.

“I have a name, you know,” Sirius remarks in an amusedly offended voice, getting up from his chair, as if not noticing her last words, and then adds: “I'm not that old, am I?”

“Mrs. Weasley does not approve of this,” Granger points at a half-empty bottle of fire-whiskey, noting how much the man smells of alcohol.

“Mrs. Weasley does _not_ understand that this is my house. If I want, I’ll get drunk. If I want, I’ll bring whores from the Knockturn. If I want, I’ll burn the whole library!” Sirius slams his fist on the table and everything that was lying on it shakes.

“If you touch the books, Mr. Black,” she begins with a fuse, but hesitates, and then looks away somewhere.

“What? Swallowed your tongue, kitten?” he takes a step towards, and the girl backs off. “Where is your famous Gryffindor courage, huh?”

“You confuse courage with recklessness,” mutters Hermione, turning around and taking a quick step toward the door. Sirius snorts and grabs her hand.

“You mean, being in my company is reckless?

“Let go of me, Mr. Black.” 

* * *

  
The war erases, grinds the edges.

Snape has convulsions after Cruciatus.

“Oh, professor, it's you here. Holy shit.”

For those who sit in the kitchen as quietly as possible at night and don’t turn on the lights, Tonks thinks, should be a separate cauldron in hell. Especially when the house is half empty and even Muggle news talk about nothing but maniacs. The house on Grimmauld is protected by Fidelius and basically impenetrable. The House on Grimmauld is the most safe place in England except, probably, Hogwarts.

The house on Grimmauld is each of these things, but that doesn't make life any easier.

“What are you doing here? Five in the morning.” Tonks pulls on the handle of the refrigerator and blindly grabs for a packet of milk.

“I'm making a plan to take over the world, in case it escaped your notice,” Snape mutters into a glass of rum in such a tone as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

“Looks like you’re just making a mess, to me,” the Auror tries to lean on the door elegantly, but almost falls, so she just props her back against the cabinet. Sirius does this without any effort, even after a few bottles. Like something subconscious. That’s right, she thinks: no Azkaban can corrode the purity of blood.

“If you came here to shorten my life with your mindless chatter... ”

“No,” Tonks waves her hand, “If you need help with something, I could help, maybe?”

For some reason, "do vanish" does not sound. 

* * *

  
Wood quietly cracks in the fireplace, the old clock beats midnight and snow falls in large flakes on the street. Sleeping is unreal - Ginny snores louder than all the Weasleys combined. Therefore, not to go crazy, Hermione has to run to the library. She freezes in the doorway when she sees a familiar figure on the couch.  
Sneaking up is bad. Bothering him, too.

“Come sit, if you aren’t sleeping,” Sirius turns to her, pats the cushion and smiles faintly. The old sofa upholstery is surprisingly cold. “Forgive me, Hermione. I... I talked nonsense, really.”

“I get it, I mean. It’s no big deal, Mr. Black. Sirius.”

“No, really. Just understand that I’m sitting here day in and day out, and no one pays attention like I’m Hamlet’s father’s shadow, and they haven’t read Shakespeare,” he laughs and suddenly seems younger as if there were no years, deaths and wars. That’s how she saw him on Potter’s wedding photos. “Although they haven’t read it, most likely.”

Hermione wants to respond with something like “Everything will be alright” or “Oh, that’s no true, they care”, or something serious like an adult, but instead a vicious teenage imagination draws Sirius holding a skull of a house-elf and saying: “Oh, poor Kreacher.”

"And I basically say that to rile you up. Has anyone told you that you’re very pretty when you are angry?”

Unexpected.

He gently strokes her cheek, his hand is so surprisingly _warm_ , runs his knuckles over her cheekbone and tucks her hair behind her ear. All Hermione’s thoughts are frightened ravens, flying around, beating against each other and falling dead.

“He loves me; he loves me not...”

_But he is good deep, deep down. Only very, very lonely, he had to endure so much, to suffer, and all alone, wrongly convicted, twelve years without simple human warmth._

"...he will kiss me,"

Silly, naïve girl. They don’t put good and innocent people in Azkaban without trial.

* * *

  
“Mom says you're moving out!” Ginny climbs on the bed, thank Merlin she didn’t forget to take off her shoes in all excitement. “They cleaned out that second guest room, near the library, remember? With the stupid carpet and red curtains.”

“Yes, yes. I’m running away from your snoring,” laughs Hermione and covers her face from the flying pillow.

The radio dragged here by Arthur a week ago broadcasts the distorted voice of Celestine Warbeck.

_Oh my poor heart, where are you?_

* * *

  
  
The black and white TV in the living room shows an old Charlie Chaplin movie. The full moon was but two days ago, and Remus is still a tad bit too pale. He sits in the creaking chair and tries knitting something, starting anew every three minutes.  
  
Regulus’s room is directly above his head, and every other minute something shatters, and Remus hears broken, maddened and drunken whispering.  
  
“You, a bastard, Merlin’s pants.”  
  
“And now about the criminal situation,” says the bald broadcaster.  
  
“What are you looking for in the news?“ asks Kingsley.  
  
“But I loved you, fucker,” Sirius whispers, the glass breaks again and grows together under an unsteady wand.  
  
Loved. He loved him once, too.  
  
“It will hurt, but not for long,” says the muggle doctor in his head. The pliable metal of the knitting needles bends under the fingers.

* * *

  
The tapestry room smells like boiled cabbage and floor rugs. While cleaning there, Harry stumbles upon an old piano and taps the keys a couple of times. The cacophony cuts the ear but drowns out the broken, terrified whispers from the next room.

“You saw the prophecy yourself, Minerva.”

The piano flinches. As if gaining his own will, the lid slams shut and painfully hits the fingers.

* * *

  
Quite by accident, the floorboard seems to creak. Hermione is bolting upright, alert, a wand in one hand, lighting a lamp, and with the second one rubbing at her eyes.

“Sirius? What are you doing here? Did something happen? Is this Harry?”

Maybe he has a vision again, or Tonks and Hestia didn't return from the patrol, or the Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts, or...

In the white light, the black diamond on the family ring shimmers slightly. It suddenly occurs to Sirius that this is the second generation not sleeping, but only napping with a wand under the pillow.

“No, no, don’t be afraid. Nothing happened to Harry. It’s okay.”

The non-verbal and wandless silencing spell penetrates the keyhole with an almost silent silk rustle. It is effortless - when there are four concrete walls and an endless ocean around, there is nothing more to do. Under Black’s weight, the mattress sinks. He slowly pulls the wand out of her numb hands - the knuckles are white, bones a step away from cracking from tension, and puts it somewhere on the table.

“This house scares me, Sirius.”

_You too._

He smiles.

“Do you want me to stay?” 

* * *

  
Remus will never tell, but the morning of Harry's exams Sirius is deadly drunk even before the old clock strikes ten. (It's seven in Japan, so shut up, goodie-two-shoes). Black doesn't hit things, doesn't yell at Kreacher or any of this. He leans on the doorframe with aristocratic elegance (and it's right, he thinks, pure blood runs deep, and even Azkaban can't change anything) and waves the bottle of rum in front of Lupin's face.

"C'mon, have a drink! It's good stuff, Loony. Fuck, Moony, come on. Maybe then you'll help me, eh?" A dusty pillow flies towards the laughing Animagus, but he catches it with ease. The offer to help with the lack of love life is the third one in two days, and it has already seized being funny.

"I'm not coming a mile near _that thing_ ," Lupin shakes his head, "We have no hangover potion, you know? Not my problem. And if you call me Loony one more time I will hex you into next week."

"Fine, _Lo-o-ny!_ Don't be a bore," Black is a tad more serious this time, no doubt due to his infamous mood swings. He sits on the sofa, pouring two full glasses. "To Harry, he has OWLs today. Probably worked himself into a state. Do you remember, we were young, too? Do you, eh?" He elbows Remus in the side, and the rum spills onto his pants.

The grim old place is too stifling. Idleness will kill Sirius even sooner than alcohol and smoking, and Remus is honestly a little scared.

But when Harry suddenly needs help, Sirius' gaze sobers, and Lupin thinks it's definitely some kind of magic. And when he sits near Harry's bed in St. Mungo's to the boy's half-whispered:

"He said: Nice one, James!'' The professor tells him that Sirius always saw his father in him, that he-Harry-is brave and hot-headed and reckless as any other Gryffindor. It's not a lie, but...

But Remus will never tell that the words "Deadly drunk" were never so literal, and they never hurt that much.

* * *

  
“If you had stopped whining about every little thing, you would have seen that Sirius was a completely different person!” Harry says again, and Hermione sighs, defeated.

Apathy permeates the house, woven into every curtain, settles in the corners with heavy and centuries-old dust. Granger is tired of seeing Sirius Black at every step, popping out of cupboards and crumbling from age sideboards as a gray shadow.

He is dead, dead, _dead_. Nobody comes back from behind the veil, but...

Bogarts are fears and memories swarming in dark corners, creeping out nightmares in the flesh with every accidental turn of a wand. Dust falls, swirls in the dim light of the sun closed by thunderclouds.

There is a portrait of a middle-aged woman in red in her room. She never says anything, so Granger sometimes thinks it's a normal Muggle picture.

“That doesn't make you stupid, baby,” the woman's voice is creaky, but Hermione thinks she understands, “that makes you blind.”

The woman in red smiles sadly, leaving behind an empty canvas and never returns.

* * *

  
The basement kitchen is damp, wet and stuffy. Hermione looks indifferently at pasta and stuffed rabbit. Then she slightly pushes the plate away from herself - a second later the food disappears in Ron's mouth.

Up there, someone is corrupted by Imperius.

The ministry is falling.

It’s falling, crumbling on their heads with new idiotic laws, headings in the Prophet, which every meeting of the Order are loudly and slowly read out by the already graying Remus.

A black-haired Auror of about forty squeezes past him to the cabinets to get a cup, and on the way back she quickly puts a hand on Lupin’s shoulder. Granger doesn’t know her, never even saw before.

_“Even after all this, you remain a faithful friend.”_

_“Like an old foolish dog, is that what you mean?”_

The sun is crumbling, the sky is falling, can’t we just lie down, cover our faces and drown in it? Everything seems so fantastically-unreal, Granger doubts whether it is all a dream: dragons, elves, magic, souls. She wants a glass of apple juice and good-old Mary Poppins on TV.

The milk on the stove boils over with a loud hiss. 


End file.
